


where does the light go?

by orphan_account



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Fae & Fairies, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-28
Updated: 2012-11-28
Packaged: 2017-11-19 19:07:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/576643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>France doesn't believe in things he cannot see.</p>
            </blockquote>





	where does the light go?

_i._  
Arthur takes him to a place he’d never seen before, deep in a forest where not even the sun reaches. Francis sits and stares on grass too green, isn’t sure what he sees or if he sees; he doesn’t know if it’s his imagination, a trick of the eye perhaps, but he ignores the soft giggling he hears from the blond child pressed to his side in favor of the glittering dots shifting through air.Fireflies? Francis breathes a soft  _oh_  when one comes too close to his face, perches on his nose, and he’s afraid to move. He stares a little cross-eyed, and something sounds of bells. Francis hears a ringing in his ear and fluttering wings caress his cheek. They play in his hair and whisper things in a language he isn’t familiar with. Arthur watches with twinkling eyes, and Francis doesn’t know what he should do or if he should be afraid, so he holds his breath and shuts his eyes and sits, aglow, with lights in his hair.  
  
  
  
  
 _ii._  
Arthur finds Francis hiding in tall grass and wild flowers curled soft with sunlight and treading the last wisps of sleep. The young Gaul threads his fingers through grass and draws in the scent of flowers and earth. Eyes reflect the sky, cyanic and dreamy as he titters on the edge of never-never land. Arthur, with a handful of ringed flowers, thinks it’s funny because he sees them, pillowed in his hair, glittering, soughing to the lullaby of birds and wind through trees.  
  
Francis finally wakes periods later, stretches high and licks his lips, runs fingers through his hair and wonders how flowers got there, woven and tied prettily. He hums in question, picks at the small flower with his fingers, murmuring softly when they won’t unravel as easily as he’d expect them to. There’s a shift beside him that startles. He smiles to see Arthur there nestled amongst the grass, a ring of flowers loosely in his hands; he assumes Arthur’s the culprit and coos when Arthur opens his eyes.  
  
“I didn’t do it,” he denies frowning through his sleep haze, “the fairies did!”  
  
Francis pets his bird’s nest head naturally, “Ahh, precious thing, aren’t you?” and easily brushes the notion of fairies off with a sweep of his hands, torn flowers falling in pieces.  
  
  
  
  
 _iii._  
“They’ve taken a liking to you, you know,” Arthur says the next day. He has a small brown rabbit in his lap, pets it slowly and feeds it pink flowers. It’s rather hot this day and sweat glistens against their brows. They’ve taken refuge under a shady tree, though it doesn’t shield them from the waves of heat that seem to ride on the light breeze that blows every now and again. Thankfully, the sky is turning red and orange; night will fall soon, taking the last bits of the hot day with it.  
  
“Oh?” Francis lazily fans himself with a couple of fallen leaves, gives the blonde an inquisitive look before continuing, “And who are ‘ _they_ ’, mon petit lapin?”  
  
“The fay folk,” he says as if it’s the most obvious thing, “They think you’re too pretty for a boy.”  
  
Francis laughs lightly, “Well, merci,” it takes Arthur a moment to realize that he doesn’t get it, and turns to glare.  
  
“I didn’t say it, the fairies did!” he puffs out his cheeks when Francis simply waves it off, “They did! They like to play in your hair and give you flowers!”  
  
“I don’t believe in fairies, Angleterre,” Francis rejects it because it’s not real. He’s never seen them (clearly), and maybe he’s a little afraid to believe in things he cannot see with his own eyes, “It’s just your wild imagination playing tricks on you. Besides, you like to do all of those things, too.”  
  
The staggered look on Arthur’s face quickly turns panicked, “But you’ve seen them. In the field. They spoke to you!” and the rabbit in his arms scampers, frightened by the outburst; Arthur feels like he could run too, like the rabbit, his heart beating just as fast from the words he didn’t want to hear.  
  
“I didn’t see anything,” Francis anxiously pushes fallen hair from his face, wipes at his brow, “They were only flickering lights, probably fireflies. Stop it with the silly fairy talk, they don’t exist.”  
  
“Don’t say that!” he’s frantic now, hands tightly held in fists with tears in his eyes, and Francis falters, turns away from the child guiltily. There’s a whispering close to his ear. It hisses, and something tugs on his hair, but Francis pretends it’s not there, curls into himself, and turns a tight-lipped smile to Arthur. His apology comes, empty, but it does well to quell some of the boy’s distresses.  
  
  
  
  
 _iv._  
Francis finds him at dusk with tree limbs and twigs in his arms, “Angleterre, come help me build a fire, oui?” stuck on his tongue.  
  
Arthur is hunched forward with something in his hands. He peers through his fingers in childlike elation. Francis can see it glowing, pulsating between the gaps of Arthur’s small hands. It causes him to pause and rethink, but it’s too late—Arthur’s already noticed him. He smiles this big grin and runs to him.  
  
“You have to believe me now! Look, see—I have a fairy in my hands! She lives in your rose bushes!” he reaches as far as his arms can go. Up on his tippy toes, he bounces impatiently, coaxing Francis to look, but he has that smile on his face again. Something in Arthur breaks. He doesn’t take comfort in the hand in his hair or the kiss to his forehead. Francis turns and leaves Arthur alone, the light in his hands dying to a shimmer before waning completely.  
  
  
  
  
 _v._  
...and every time a child says, “ _I don't believe in fairies_ ”, there is a fairy  
                              somewhere that falls down  _dead_...  
  
The following day, Francis finds his once flourishing rose bushes withered and dead, petals fallen and stems bare.


End file.
